Composition, by Arnold Peter Weisz-Kubínčan (1930)
We were talking about our brightest hopes for the future when my friend’s train hurtled into view. In an instant, its doors were before us, open and inviting. Mid-sentence, she gave me a squeeze and yelled “I fucking love you!” while jumping inside. We waved once more as she sped away.
At my yoga studio in Manhattan, home away from home, there’s a small lobby with two elevators. I often talk to people who are waiting to leave, only to have one of the tiny moving boxes appear. Before I know it, the doors open like a portal to the future. Each time, the person walks in, ready to go, and we continue trading words till we can’t anymore. “Bye!” we offer at the last second.
Once, in Brooklyn, after meeting dear friends for dinner, we walked down the sidewalk towards the train. Our meal was over too quickly, and what next? It was a school night. As we approached the subway entrance, they heard their train rattle from the earth below. “Gotta go!” they cried, sprinting down the stairs. “Text me!” I screamed from the sidewalk.
Mid-conversation, running, blowing kisses — this is how New Yorkers say goodbye. During my year there, I came to expect quick departures. They’re part of the fabric of life, though they caught me off guard at first. Left to my own devices, I might linger into another conversation, bask in the glow of wonderful people, reach for one more hug.
But the ease and cleanliness of New York farewells — no one expecting much, everyone getting on with their day — soon became a source of comfort. My friends and I knew we’d meet again, and until then, we’d all be riding the current of that city together in separate directions.
Even as I leaned into quick goodbyes, calling love out loudly to friends as they hurtled sideways and backwards down stairwells, waving maniacally, I stood still for a moment after they disappeared. Every time, noticing their fancy footwork. Every time, blinking. “What just happened?” my eyelids seemed to ask.
I’ve thought about that dear city almost constantly this past month. My family was supposed to be there right now, having arranged a sublet for March and a lease starting in April. We’d worked towards this transition for two years, maybe three, and like everything else, it took longer than planned. Our arrival on March 9 was set to be a creative, financial, and instinct-affirming capstone years in the making.
On March 8, we realized everything had to be canceled. Still, we dragged our feet for a while before withdrawing our rental application. We’d found a one-bedroom in Brooklyn — somehow, with a washing machine and dishwasher. Along with the rest of the world, we were swimming in uncertainty, hoping to preserve any shreds of our former lives still within reach.
Instead, everything was ripped out from under us, and along with countless others, we watched jobs, income streams, plans, and opportunities disappear. Yet we focused on peacefulness, acutely aware that we are among the lucky ones. We have safety nets that other Americans lack, some still-reliable income, and a roof over our heads. Even if we struggle or lose footing, we know we’ll probably be okay in the end. We understand how many others can’t say the same and sometimes feel guilty for considering our own fallout. I believe many things can be true at once, that all fear and grief are valid, and often tell my husband it’s okay for everyone to mourn their losses, no matter how small.
But is it? When some lost vacations and others lost their lives? These are questions we’re all asking, and it’s hard to know what to feel.
In the weeks since March 8, our worst fears were realized when it became clear yet again in this country, that health — survival, in this case — is a racist, classist issue. We’ve seen abhorrent responses at all levels of government, and on top of that, reopening is problematic and will be for a long time. Life as we knew it is over.
There’s so much to process, from personal disappointments to sweeping death in the world. It’s impossible to wrap our heads around it now. We’ll be navigating collective — and in too many cases, personal — trauma for years to come.
Earlier this year, we were engrossed in our lives, deep in conversation with the world around us, when suddenly a train tore into the station. No one wanted it, but in an instant, its doors were open before us.
Mid-conversation, life screamed goodbye and jumped on board. Plans, work, stability — and god help us, people — were carried away, into the tunnel and out of view.
Now we linger on the platform, waving weakly. We’re standing still and blinking.
What just happened?
Between you and me—
How are you holding up? All is well here, though I’m tired. I don’t know if it’s the global crisis or the neighbor’s dogs who bark me awake every morning. This week, I considered our pandemic summer and remembered the magic of touch. As usual, if this struck a chord, I’m grateful for friend-sharing and heart-clicking. Wishing you a week of health and joy.